LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I’ll take a jar of black olives, please, and a small carton of the bean salad,” she said stiffly, hoping to nip the conversation in the bud. “And, just for the record, he’s my ex-husband.”

      But picking up subtle hints never had been one of Ingrid’s strong points. “Don’t think folks haven’t noticed, hon! There’s a whole flurry of social events suddenly being planned and, as usual, the first one out of the gate is Mrs. Bowles. Just yesterday, she booked me to cater a garden party and let slip that Dr. Madison’s name’s at the top of her list of invitees. And I guess we all know why.” She weighed the salad, slapped a lid on it, and hitched her bosom on the edge of the glass-fronted display case of imported cheeses, a sure sign she was settling in for the duration. “She didn’t shell out the better part of eight thousand dollars to make her daughter presentable just to have her sitting home and withering on the vine, as it were. Now that Joanne’s got the braces off her teeth and shed all that extra weight, Mrs. Bowles is looking to fix her up with a rich husband. And if the car your ex is driving is anything to go by, he’s not exactly on the bread line.”

      “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that, since I have absolutely no idea what sort of car he’s driving, nor any interest in finding out.”

      “No,” Ingrid said slyly. “I guess you’ve been too busy checking out his other assets. Having second thoughts about the divorce, are you?”

      “Certainly not!”

      “Probably just as well. From all I’ve heard, he’s a bit more than a woman like you can handle.”

      The way Ingrid looked at her, she might have been the offspring of a troll trying to pass for human.

      “Thank you very much!” Olivia said, and made her escape. But, instead of heading directly to the hospital, she detoured by way of the park and found a bench in a quiet corner overlooking the river. She needed a few moments to collect herself before running the risk of facing anyone else because, in her present state, she could only be described as a mess.

      Why had Ingrid’s last comment hurt so much when it coincided exactly with the conclusion she herself had arrived at years ago? Why did it matter that every eligible woman within hailing distance was setting her sights on Grant Madison, or that invitations were being issued and she probably wouldn’t be receiving any? And why couldn’t she forget how it had felt to be in his arms again, to feel his heart beating beneath her hand?

      She knew the answer and it had nothing to do with falling in love again—at least, not with him. It had to do with his all-too-accurate assessment of her relationship with Henry.

      She was a woman in her prime. She should be married and pregnant, with one or two children already hanging onto her skirts. She should have a warm, exciting body sleeping next to her in bed each night.

      Instead, she had Henry, who’d implied more than once that he was in love with her. But the thought of actually making love with him left her cold, and he fortunately was too much the gentleman to press the point. Unlike Grant….

      Unbidden, the memories of that long-ago summer came sweeping back. She’d been just two months shy of her twentieth birthday when they’d met, and to say that she’d fallen in love with the handsome new intern was an absurd understatement. She’d literally tumbled headlong into a passion so hot and intense it had nearly killed her.

      On their third date, Grant had rented a boat and they’d spent the afternoon drifting down the river. Because of the heat, she’d worn a white sun dress with nothing underneath but a pair of cotton panties, and he’d worn denim cut-offs and a blue golf shirt. Spreading out her skirt, she’d reclined against the boat cushions, rested her head against one raised arm, and let the fingers of her other hand trail through the water, all the time watching him through half-closed eyes, admiring the play of muscles beneath the smooth tanned skin of his arms and legs, and very much aware that he was watching her.

      A few miles past the town limits, he’d steered into a quiet backwater, tethered the boat, and led her up the bank toward a huge old weeping willow. She’d sensed the urgency in him, had seen the smoldering passion in his eyes. When he’d drawn her down beside him in the long, sweet grass, she’d known he wasn’t going to stop at a kiss or two, just as she’d known she wasn’t going to object at his wanting more from her.

      Even all these years later, remembering made her blush. How willingly she’d sprawled beside him, with her skirt up around her waist and the straps of her dress pulled down to reveal her breasts, and her underwear hanging off one ankle! How brazenly she’d let him pleasure her, moaning low in her throat as he’d skimmed his lips over the slope of her shoulder and at excruciating leisure taken each pebbled nipple in his mouth! And how trustingly she’d opened to him, her flesh so slick and eager and his so hard and hot and big that the pain as he’d entered her had barely had time to register before it had been thrust aside by raging passion.

      Today, the sun shot brilliant silver arrows through her closed eyelids, but that day the light had been the softly diffused green of a tranquil, underwater sort of world. After the loving, she’d lain there for the longest time, waiting for him to say the right words, the only words a woman wants to hear when she’s given herself unconditionally to a man.

      Instead, the silence had lengthened and left her wondering if he’d found her a terrible disappointment. When she’d finally found the courage to look at him, he’d been stretched beside her with his head propped up on his hand and a lazy smile on his face. “Hey,” he’d murmured.

      Hey, what? she’d almost cried. What does that mean? And what happens next?

      What had happened next was that he’d climbed back into his cut-offs as casually as though he was quite used to baring his all in the great outdoors and, glancing at his watch, reached down and hauled her to her feet. “We’d better head back,” he’d said, planting a swift kiss on her mouth. “I’m due at the hospital in another hour.”

      There’d been grass stains on her dress, and she’d cried all the way home as aftermath had set in. “Everyone will know what we’ve done,” she’d wailed.

      “How?” he’d said. “I’m not planning on spreading the news.”

      “They’ll be able to tell, just by looking at me!”

      He’d bent over the oars and grinned in that carefree way of his. “You don’t look any different to me, sweet face,” he’d said.

      She’d been devastated. How could he appear so untouched by what they’d shared, when she would never again be the same?

      Her father had sensed the change in her immediately, and when Grant hadn’t phoned the next day, as promised, had said cryptically, “That’s what you get for giving in to a man like Madison. He’s using you, Olivia, and you’ll live to regret the day you met him.”

      True enough, she thought now, dashing impatiently at the tears suddenly stabbing at her eyes. And if she was so determined to revive the past, she’d do well to dig up some less romantic memories, such as the day she’d told him she was pregnant, in the February following their September wedding.

      “Oh, damn!” he’d sighed, sinking to the edge of their bed and lowering his head into his hands. “How the hell did that happen?”

      As if he hadn’t known!

      Better yet, what about the day he learned she’d miscarried? “A blessing in disguise,” he’d said, using his most professional bedside manner. “I know you’re hurting now, but you’re young and healthy and there’s no reason you can’t carry a baby to term when the time’s right. But that time, Olivia, is not now.”

      Of course it hadn’t been—at least, not for someone who’d secretly applied to work on a medevac team in the Northwest Territories once his year of internship was up, and who, if he was accepted, would spend at least half his time away from home. But that was the kind of man she’d married—too focused on his own wants and needs to give a hoot about anyone else’s, least of all a wife

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